| 1 |
Time to Party / Forbidden Realms / Outside in the Distance (G) |
on: August 25, 2009, 09:14:24 PM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
Note: This was the first answer I came up with to Ivorygates' response to my meme post, but then I realized I'd only shifted the POV to Aeryn's in, neon distraction (the hour is getting late), and had to re-write it. I kept this instead of throwing it away and decided to post it. Thank you again, Ivory for giving this a look-see.
Rating: G
Setting: Post Peacekeeper Wars
Outside in the Distance
She watched you slowly change; it was as slow and inevitable as the ticking of the clock (the death of a star). Holding your hand until the last moment, she saw your eyes fill with wormholes until you were gone - pulled under by the riptide.
In the beginning she believed, forlorn faith that ended as the dark eclipsed the future, that she could stop it, attempting to knock you back (away) but there was always just one thing that could offer your devotion resistance just as surely as she could.
Numbers are tangible and infuriating and unforgiving in their truth. And she lost. |
  
|
| 2 |
Time to Party / Forbidden Realms / neon distraction (the hour is getting late) (G) |
on: August 25, 2009, 09:12:35 PM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
Note: Inspired by this cover for Strange Detractors #2 but not related.
Rating: G
Setting: Post Peacekeeper Wars.
neon distraction (the hour is getting late)
You can hear the slow winding down of the clock; time, in a basic representation, is dying. Is dead. Buried under the weight of numbers. Possibilities and probabilities have slit its throat and you are bathed in the fluidity of time while it ebbs and flows in the final throes.
The ticking clock is still.
Time is dead. It slips through your fingertips as you try and cling for one second more; to hear one last tick. Too late. So late. Goodbye. You whisper those words and follow the weeping river of time before it evaporates under your feet.
One step and another and you're flying down the throat, watching for the sign that will let you know that you’ve reached your destination. You are the only thing moving once you’re fallen off the road, each time hurts worse than the first time you were born. Without time, there's no lubricant to smooth away the aches and pains.
Stop. Rewind. Fast-forward. You just want to make it end but there isn't any. You watch her in a moment, a flash, a heartbeat that no longer exists. She's weeping over the child. Yours, hers, his, and once it was ours. There are blisters and heat and raging against the inevitable and everything is laid to waste.
You flip and fly. Please god, no more. You are not you. Time is dead at your hands. It was meant to be. It's death warrant was signed over and over again each time you are born. The moment you stop being human sealed the deal.
You want Einstein to make it stop, to let you end, but he can't. With the last slide of the pendulum, he ceased to exist. There is only you. Your hand. Your heartbeat breathing life back into time. |
|
|
| 3 |
Time to Party / Forbidden Realms / Martyrs & Gangsters |
on: October 25, 2008, 03:19:15 PM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
Author's Note: Written for Eclipse in Kernezelda's Villains! Farscape Style ficathon. This story is so not what I intended and I tried my best to still give her a story that she'll like. Thank you once more the lovely Ivorygates (who I promise to never kill because of all the editing she makes me do). All other mistakes are my own.
Prompt: Axikor (i.e., I Shrink, Therefore I Am) and/or Scorpius and/or Crichton
Spoilers: Goes AU before the end of I Shrink, Therefore I Am
Rating: PG-13 (for one earth cuss word)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
Martyrs & Gangsters
Sikozu: "Why did you come here?"
Scorpius: "To safeguard John Crichton. Amongst other things." - Promises
“Get the fuck off of me!”
Even within the stifling confines of the cell, Scorpius can hear the human's futile rage as Crichton is contained. It's short work and soon he and Crichton are the solitary occupants within Axikor’s chest. His arms are locked behind his knees within the magnetized pain cuffs, immobilized on the opposite wall.
They face each other, but the other man’s typical demand for answers is unsurprisingly absent. Their fate is obvious and uncertain; soon they will be delivered into the hands of the Scarran Imperium and it will be only a matter of time before either of them is offered death as the only means of escape.
Crichton tries to school his features, but there are flickers of fear radiating outward. Even without Scorpius’ ability to see the turbulent aura surrounding the man, he would have known exactly what is hiding behind those dangerously blank eyes. A shift in pressure alerts them of the change in transport. Axikor would need something small and fast, such as Officer Sun’s Prowler, to rendezvous with his Superiors.
They are separated soon after arriving on the Dreadnaught, secured in one of the darker recesses, until he hears a door slide almost silently open and several sets of heavy boot steps steadily approach his location.
Scorpius doesn't rise when the War Minister stands outside of his cell door. She offers ultimatums and earns finely tuned answers tailored with a flippancy he has mastered courtesy of John Crichton. Axikor stands just off to her side, sneering at her with barely contained disrespect, and states that his brother, the Emperor, would be able to draw Scorpius and Crichton’s secrets from them. Ahkna's eyes narrow and she orders them moved to her ship.
Scorpius bears the expected questions and torture but Ahkna is an amateur in the face of all that he has endured at the hand of those of less exalted stature. But with each microt in Ahkna’s hands, his mind is never far from Crichton’s; listening to whispered fevered thoughts, offering subtle commands and warnings.
When Scorpius is returned to his cell at the end of the second day, he falls on the steel grating of his cell and only barely notices his companion crumpled under the bedding of the only pallet. Worried momentarily that Ahkna has managed to kill the human, depositing his remains in here as a means to taunt him, Scorpius weakly rolls over. He raises himself up to sit next to the thankfully still breathing body and quickly inspects him. He is unconscious, scratches dried bloody, feverish, but there are no other outward signs of injury. That means little.
Manipulation of the mind, causing it to second-guess reality, to forget who one's friends and enemies truly are. Most prisoners readily gave up their secrets after breaking. The tactic does not work on Scorpius, and information gathered from the first neural chip told him that with the clone’s assistance, it has previously failed on Crichton as well.
Some time passes and if not for the even rise and fall of Crichton's chest, Scorpius would have cause for concern over his unwilling cellmate's health. He keeps the man's body bundled against the feverish shivering and watches for any signs that his condition is beginning to deteriorate. He thinks that if this session did not produce the desired results, next will see the use of several drugs designed to force a truthful answer. In a Sebacean, the chemicals affect the body fast and hard; too much for a human. All of the Sebacean prisoners Scorpius has seen after more than one session all but begged for death once the drugs began breaking down their neurological systems.
Their meal is brought to them and Scorpius is informed they had better eat heartily because soon the Dreadnaught will arrive at Katrazi. Emperor Staleek is waiting.
Retrieving the plates, Scorpius lifts Crichton from where he's lying, sitting him upright and starts to try and wake him. Even a small portion of food will help him fight the aftereffects of being in one of the Scarrans' interrogation machines.
Crichton finally wakes up and looks at him bleary-eyed, his speech slurred as he asks what's wrong with him. Scorpius leans in closer, watching Crichton's heat signature, trying to listen to the newest version of the clone permanently residing within the human's mind. The spectral voice is almost silent.
He questions gently and discovers that Ahkna has bypassed the prescribed interrogation protocols. Working slowly, Scorpius tests how much of Crichton’s brain is damaged. He's pleased that they stopped before they could ruin the mind that had stubbornly and creatively refused reason for cycles. For now, the only things that are affected are speech and the ability to focus on what is going on around him. Crichton's mind is scattered at the moment but it will heal if treated soon.
Holding Crichton against his body, Scorpius slowly feeds him until his hand is smacked away. He helps Crichton sit back against the wall, not moving when he lays his head against Scorpius' shoulder as his body fights the fever inside and slips easily back into sleep.
Once they're on Katrazi there is no telling what step the War Minister will take next in her quest for answers, proclaiming the efforts to be in the Emperor's name.
Scorpius smiles harshly as he thinks of the Emperor and their arrangement, but circumstances are far different with Crichton in the Scarrans custody and any chance for escape in the near future will be almost non-existent. Ahkna thinks that she can use either him or Crichton as a means to oust Staleek, and Scorpius would - is - staking his life on the fact that Staleek is well aware of it and willing to accept reasonable suggestions to prevent the would-be usurper from gaining what she desires.
Providing the right information, proving that his intentions to Staleek (and their previous arrangement) are still honorable. Scorpius decides that is the right course of action for the moment; maneuvering himself into a position as Crichton's keeper even if he is still considered a prisoner himself. The two of them, working together, under the Emperor's watchful eye, can stall any further attacks upon ill-defended Sebacean settlements. Though certainly not indefinitely. Once Crichton has healed enough, once Scorpius has set things in motion, then they can escape their captors.
After they are free, Scorpius knows that it will take very little prompting on his part to convince Crichton what their proper course of action should be.
|
|
|
| 4 |
Time to Party / Forbidden Realms / Mind to Love |
on: September 12, 2008, 01:49:19 AM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
Author's Note: Written for Eclipse in the Disney on Acid - Farscape Potluck Ficathon. Her request: Alternate ending to LGM where the cavalry doesn't save our hero - bonus for use of the corridor scene. Hopefully you don't mind that I'm sort of cheating since it was this drabble done last week that finally inspired me and that I consider this a continuation of sorts to it. The actual premise comes from a nightmare I had a few years ago after falling asleep to Liars, Guns and Money while it was on repeat in the DVD player. I'd like to thank Sarahjane's extra eyes on this and Ivorygates for beta'ing my grammar. Sadly she was the one to suffer under my abusive tense switching. Flowers can be forwarded to her LJ for the memorial service. Thank you both, ladies!! *smooch*
Extra Note: Please remember I love metaphors and symbolism when you read this.
Setting: End of Season 2, beginning of Season 3.
Rating: PG (for one Earth curse word)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
Mind to Love
They worked side by side in silence, human and half-breed. Their shoulders hunched in concentration, in theory and mapping the unknown wormholes that were just outside their grasp. When they did speak, those that listened carefully believed it was in a code that only those whose very natures were bound by science could possibly know, their cadences indistinguishable from one another.
Those that questioned Scorpius' judgment in continuing the hunt after Crichton into the Uncharted Territories fell silent when he brought his prey back, but they were dubious about the fact the human was standing beside him without chains and heavy guard.
Dissent vanished when Crichton quickly set to work in front of a computer, its display filled with schematics, attempting to achieve Scorpius' goals. Tamed, he was no longer seen as just a barbarian alien or the hated monster propagandized by the Counsel.
What was not seen, behind closed doors and closed eyes, without the watchful glare of an audience – was madness and rage.
Rage that rivaled a half-breed's vengeance and infinite patience. No one, not even Scorpius, could see the curses that spewed forward beneath ice blue eyes, that if spoken would ensnare and trap even the most stable star.
The chip was supposed to be removed; instead its purpose was changed to that of subjugation. Further safeguard to ensure the knowledge was always ready, always within Peacekeeper hands – even if the host was unwilling to spill the secrets ingrained with it.
His mind was as a loosely-woven fabric, frayed edges that were teased apart and woven back together allowing for a minute portrait of the knowledge to be seen, captured and held in Scorpius' gloved hand.
In the moments of increasingly sporadic lucidity, Crichton would stare back, glaring, at Scorpius – unable to control the words issuing from his lips, nor how his body reacted to the touch of leather upon leather.
But he could feel. He could scream inside his own mind. And fight. That never ended.
All that was needed were the building blocks of Crichton's subconscious. A moment spent in a far off schoolyard leading eventually to the scribbling of drawn out equations on a blackboard sprawling across the mindscape, they were all linked, unable to sustain themselves without the catalyst – a lone human’s life. One memory upon another as another fell into place.
They gave birth to a wormhole. Beautiful. Stable. Magnificent and terrifying.
It was all that they could have hoped for.
And it wasn't enough.
With each successful creation, Crichton withheld his own inevitable joy. The rapture he could not help but feel even as the clone – Scorpius' – desires spilled into his own imprisoned thoughts.
Half-breed and Human. Scorpius and Crichton. Their names became interchangeable. Where one was seen, the other was within an arm's reach.
Scorpius wouldn't have it any other way.
They watched together on the bridge of the carrier as the first fist of Peacekeeper might struck out, leaving nothing in its wake. Crichton wished that it would swallow him – them all – within it.
Once Scorpius allowed him release from the cognitive limbo he inhabited. It didn't last beyond the center of the room. Crichton no longer knew how to control his own limbs and he fell in a crumbled pile of twitches and false starts, wanting only to rip out his captor's throat. His bloodied fingers were pulled away from his own neck before the clone was satisfied of the lesson learned.
Crichton now saw the world through a distortion – sight and sound. Everything filtered through the chip, through the neural clone – through Scorpius' personality. He felt only what was ordered and offered. A limit set to everything.
It was when the body slept that Crichton felt freedom, though limited to the small confines of the room just off of Scorpius' private quarters. Kept under special guard and staff – with only the ship's commander holding the key, he was visited when it came over the surveillance monitors that he had gained a measure of control and needed to be restrained before he could cause harm to himself.
No amount of pleading, no deals could shake the fate that the Ancients had sentenced him to when they had bestowed their gift. He was no more than a incubator for genocide. A living Pandora’s box that could never be closed. Not until the pulse stopped in his veins.
But Scorpius couldn't stop his memories. They sustained him. Shimmering and elusive, but there for him to reach out and touch.
There's an itch in the center of his chest when he opens his eyes. It burns. Teases his senses when he turns his head and stares into the darkness and it stares back – minimal light reflecting off of edges that aren't really there
He sits up, running sweaty palms over weary eyes. Knows it was all a dream, facilitated by loss. Thinks that it would have been better if maybe he hadn't been saved and becomes angry at the self-recrimination - at the unintentional insult to the sacrifices made by those that care too deeply.
The lights of DRDs can be seen moving outside the latticework of the door; it doesn’t help secure him back in the here and now. In fact, it makes him feel as if this is the dream and that other world, the one where he lived his life as Scorpius’ favorite wormhole Rosetta stone, was reality. He doesn’t want to know which one is right. At least there, he hasn’t been the cause of the deaths his friends – his family.
When he thinks of Zhaan calling him innocent, he wants to cry. That word is so very far from the truth that he wants to laugh, to be back in the dream, allowing himself to drown in the madness.
Drawing his knees up, he ignores the imaginary specter that reminds him silently – constantly – insistently – of what could have been (or is?). Catches his breath, lets the sweat cool and dry on his chest and back before lying down and turning on his side, facing the door once more.
“Get the fuck out of here – I’m done with you now.”
fin |
|
|
| 8 |
Time to Party / Forbidden Realms / headlights in my eyes, we collide |
on: May 20, 2008, 11:58:57 PM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
Author's Note: This was written for LithiumDoll and the celebration of her birth, only a wee bit late. I know there are certain things she enjoys in her Farscape fic and I wanted to give them to her - this sort of grew after I started it. I'd like to thank Ivorygates for the beta and the aneurysm she caused by making me really think about what I was trying to say. I'd also like to thank Sarahjane for being my extra eyes on this and giving suggestions and drive-by vote of approval. All other mistakes are my own. And as always all feedback, good or bad, is more than welcome.
Setting: Between Beware of Dog and Won't Get Fooled Again
Rating: G
Warnings: This is me... writing season 2. That's all you need.
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
headlights in my eyes, we collide
So leave me on my own,
Run me down and race away from me.
I've got nowhere to go to,
I don't think I can get back on my feet.
-- Rob Dougan (I'm Not Driving Anymore)
He rests one hand on the door, the other hovering just over the control to open it. Something in his gut is telling him that there is danger just on the other side, waiting for the first opportunity to latch its teeth deep into flesh too warm for comfort. Laughter is his only available weapon and he uses it, attempting to banish his fear to the darkest part of his psyche without success. There is no way to truly rid himself of the fear and paranoia that grow in silence; binding him in that same wordless cacophony. It keeps him off-balance and vulnerable.
He knows this and the knowledge wears him down further as he fights.
His lips form a prayer, a chant to fortify his strength, as he allows his hand to fall across the sensor. Pressing forward before his instincts force him to turn and run, to hide away from unwanted eyes, he breathes out the lungful of air he’d unconsciously been holding since stopping on the other side.
There is someone waiting for him and he speaks her name.
Several microts tick by before he realizes that he is unsure if what he’s feeling is relief or anguish. He uses surprise as a mask to hide the confusion, the growing need to run in the opposite direction when he sees her.
He stands there, staring in silence for a moment as her muscles coil, ready for the unexpected. When he voices no emergency, she visibly relaxes, but he can see the warning signs of worry, subtle and hidden from the others. They have grown close, their emotions and skill maturing into something wholly new to them both. At times it is conceivable that each of them knows what the other is thinking with accuracy that borders on the unreal.
She slides a canister across the surface of the table, offering him a drink; the opportunity to talk without pressure. He wants to, is almost desperate to do so, but not here. The possibility of unwanted interruptions is too high. What he wants to say he has imagined time and again, of lying her down beside him in the dark where he can hide from her appraising eyes. Arms and legs entwined as he whispers uncertainties against her skin.
His hope is palpable, but thread-bare to anyone willing to look more closely, and the woman observing him as he accepts the invitation and sits down beside her is doing more than that. She’s watching, waiting to cast judgment if he doesn’t take care.
Assuaging her hidden worry with a smile and a quip that only he truly understands, he focuses by staring at the features he finds worthy of adoration. Her lips – careful in their shaping words of comfort that he understands are still strange for her to form at times. He imagines tracing a line down the curve of her nose; the action has brought a smile in the past.
And finally he gazes into her eyes. Meeting them, he reaches out as if to take the offered drink but rests his hand upon hers instead. It’s only for a moment before he pulls away, clearing his throat to relieve the sudden heaviness in the room.
He laughs and picks up the container, taking a drink then stopping in surprise when he finds that it is a favorite, and a rarity. Making appreciative noises, he gives her a thumbs up signal and is pleased when she responds with a chortle of laughter.
Such a simple reaction and gesture puts her at ease, allowing her to let her guard down to an extent. And with her easiness, he starts to feel foolish over his earlier unnamed fear.
He sits there drunk on her presence and strength, his voice gaining in volume as he gestures wildly with a passing show of humor as he regales her with one of the Nebari girl’s excursions into forbidden sections of the ship; namely the Dominar’s quarters. She listens quietly, only interrupting his commentary to ask a question; not realizing nor understanding what she does – what she gives him – on a daily basis.
She quiets the discourse in his mind.
When his story comes to an end, neither says a word for several microts. The silence is not uncomfortable, but its edges are sharp and obvious with unspoken questions.
He wraps his hand around the cup of juice, mouth tingling with the flavor, and considers keeping the promise he had made to her several weekens before, a game of strategy played against even those that he cares for. It confuses him and he is unable to force away the wall of doubt it creates in one he trusts so implicitly. Many times he has stopped himself from coming to her door deep in the sleep cycle and telling her that he feels the shadows he sees out of the corner of his eye following him even into sleep.
When he is even capable of closing his eyes; paranoia and the instinct to always be on guard often supersede physical need. His judgment is starting to be affected by nightmares and it works to keep the words unspoken and locked away. He tells himself that he continues to keep silent for everyone's safety. If they doubt him - his direction in a time of crisis - it could lead to his, to their deaths (he thinks, correcting himself). Images rush forward in his mind. The surrounding room becomes intangible as he witnesses several horrific sequences of events; each resulting from his need to speak of what follows him through the Leviathan’s long corridors.
Nauseous at what he believes his imagination conjures, at the smell of scorched flesh that mingles with the scent of the fruit wafting upward, he quickly throws the cup across the room. She doesn’t jump up in shock and that surprises him until he realizes that she knew something was coming. There is not much that she misses, always on guard, always watchful. Her training is as much a part of her as breathing, as the color of her hair, or the softness of her breasts under his callused touch.
He stares at the wall, unsure of what he will see, and refuses to face her, almost certain he would not find a scornful look or pity, but the possibility causes him to tremble. That is, until the touch of a hand atop his draws him into turning toward her. There is none of the expected, dreaded, emotions lining her face. What he finds instead is understanding and genuine concern mixed with something else, something unknown. It gives him a gift of peace, a moment that he can hold onto when it’s needed most.
She stands, never removing her hand from his person, accepting of what he requires; both physically and mentally. The time it takes for them to reach his quarters is not long. They both know there is no need for words as they almost lean on one another, silently recognizing what they mean to one another.
Closing the door, he pulls the privacy curtain in front of the latticework before joining her next to the bed. He touches a strand of hair, bringing it across her shoulder, glancing up and smiling as she caresses his face. They undress to only their underclothes, agreeing silently to what was not the only purpose of their stolen moments alone. No one knows from what quarter danger will find them and so their time together is precious, neither wanting to put a name to what they feel developing between them.
As they lie side by side he listens to her breathing, to the heart beating in her chest as they press tightly together, as if becoming one being. They both know each is the other’s strength, the other's weakness. They've proven this fact over and over again as they’ve stood together under fire from those that hunt them all. His thoughts tumble; his mind is becoming dangerous ground, its surface littered by old memories so that he no longer knows where it's safe to walk and where he's going to plunge into a quagmire that suffocates his self even as it obliterates the treacherous memories. Too many things; his home, old dreams and memories lost forever to him. It is only a matter of time until he is unable to keep from adding his sanity and self-control to the list. He can feel himself weaken day by day, miniscule parts drifting away from the whole in order to hide with the shadowed voice that demands to be heard even as it secretes itself away.
He threads his fingers through her hair, brushing through the strands, and tries to ignore feeling as if eyes are staring over his shoulder at her, at the lovely pale flesh of her side before it rises up with the curve of her hip. He spreads out a hand protectively across her hip and tucks his chin into the crook of her neck. His lips form a prayer, a chant to fortify his strength. Prays to a deity he no longer believes in to protect her. Protect her from Scorpius. From himself. It is an errant thought, rushing by quickly even as it allows him to realize that he is breaking down and losing no matter how fast he runs. The old rituals are useless. He knows this, as do I. The more he fights, resisting reason in favor of self-preservation, the more he fades. Believing more in the person in his arms than in himself, he gathers his strength for the coming day. His strength is his weakness.
Aeryn Sun knows what it means to be a tool for that which is greater than herself, but villainous idealism continues to corrupt her and her usefulness in the coming days will be re-evaluated. For now she keeps him safe from others. As I protect him from himself.
|
|
|
| 9 |
Time to Party / Forbidden Realms / Learning From Fools and From Sages (Eternal Vigilance Remix) |
on: April 27, 2008, 11:08:39 AM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
Author's Note: I had been nervous about participating for the first time in RemixRedux until I found out that my assignment was to remix one of PDXscaper’s stories and I chose Vigilante Man (#2 in Three Things That Never Happened to Furlow). It was actually very easy to decide on this and I knew exactly where I wanted to go with it as soon as I read it. Thank you PDX for giving me the opportunity to play in your universe. I'd also like to thank Ivorygates and Sarahjane for their awesome betas of this. What would I do without you ladies? Any other mistakes are my own. All feedback is more than welcome.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Seasons three and four
Characters: John Crichton, Furlow
Summary: The only way to learn is by getting your hands dirty.
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
Learning From Fools and From Sages (Eternal Vigilance Remix)
Dusk til dawn. Sweet wormholes sang their siren melody as another ship was ground into so much cosmic dust. He came in and swept up the leftovers and turned a pretty penny.
The money was nothing, funding his hunt, his hunger for vengeance. When he stopped long enough to think, really think about it, he laughed coldly at the idea that Scorpius still got what he wanted and now John was living out the summary judgment passed down upon him while strapped to a table and waiting – wishing, begging – to leave this sad excuse of a universe behind. None of them had ever figured that all it took was an added dash of salt in the wound to sweeten the pot.
Thirty minutes worth of scars, his heart cut out and up and spat away. Lying like a shredded rag doll on top of a piece of mechanized junk and hubris. More than a lifetime’s worth of tears; glittering monuments that faded, but left stains that would never wash away without the light of the sun.
When the old Dominar left, it was without a sound or complaint. He’d simply held out one diminutive hand to John and silently pressed the Ractor blade into his palm with the other and looked away briefly over John’s shoulder to the woman shoving several necessities into the back of the same dune buggy that had carried Aeryn to the transport pod one last time, bowing his head once before steering the thronesled up the ramp.
John hadn’t understood then what he was being told, but he'd recognized a warning when he saw one. Rygel knew exactly how to penetrate his grief and threadbare self-control enough so that he didn't continue on completely blind to the person behind the hand that was providing a means to an end. Intrigue and money were Rygel's forte and they weren't something John Crichton dismissed lightly any longer.
Keeping a piece of Aeryn with him, wherever – whenever - he would go. Its home appeared to be nothing more than a discarded and broken data crystal if you don’t look too closely, a cheap piece of amber if you did. A few strands of hair, offered up in remembrance from his twin after he’d been given the news.
There had been no other choice but to call for Crichton to come to him. He was on the warpath and wouldn’t - couldn’t - refused to be diverted, not even long enough to retrieve something so precious. The other one. Him. Wanted to come along and fight at his side. His claims of hatred were just as righteous. His love gave him that right.
It only took a little bit of convincing, a great deal of D’Argo’s store-bought moonshine, bruised knuckles and a split lip, but finally Crichton was convinced to go after the other half of the coin with the others in tow and put a stop to Scorpius’ research while he went after the big bad that destroyed his – their - universe.
**
Coming through the door, he zeros in on Furlow sitting at her preferred table. She shoos away one of her flunkies when he crosses the room and grabs the bottle and second glass in front of her. He doesn’t even consider the contents when he throws it back and swallows quickly. Turning the glass upside down on the table top, he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging the disappointed look on her face when he doesn’t react the way she thought.
He’s learned a lot of little tricks in the past half-cycle.
She recovers quickly and sticks a cigar in her mouth, teeth grinding together, rending the pungent herb into mush between them, the only thing holding it in place is the thick covering rolled tightly around it. She puffs, and lets the smoke spill out and encircle her head; she drops whatever it is that she’s working on.
He’d tried one once, just to see, after scoring Furlow a big payday and shaking the dust of a dead dreadnaught from his boots. He’d ended up folded over the edge of the table coughing out a spleen to the beat of his companion’s blustery laugh, feeling as if she were sitting on of his chest. The smoke had settled in the bottom of his lungs and stayed for the rest of the day.
"Which reality did ya visit this time?" she asks him. The question is becoming less frequent. He knows that the not knowing, not being in on every single detail is eating her up inside because she trusts him about as far as he can throw her. As long as the money weighs down her pockets though, she keeps her part of the bargain.
Her hands can’t grip the knife embedded deeply in the center of her chest, severing the vein leading to her heart, the placement no act of luck as she looks from the hilt to his face and back again.
He laughs when she calls him partner, not every time, just enough that her Spidey-senses aren’t triggered long before the time was right.
The camera is pointed at her bulbous face; he doesn’t stop watching in case she finds a way to break free of the chains binding her to the center beam where he and Aeryn had originally found her on their second trip to Dam Ba Da. Call it a bonus well earned, but he enjoys watching her curse and strain uselessly. Eyes blank, he silently counts off the seconds until the plasma grenades ignite, vaporizing everything held between, then he walks away from the monitor sitting on the broken stone wall.
He’d had a partner, one that had watched his back and promised to be with him for the rest of his life. Now, because of Furlow’s thievery, the only person he can truly count on is himself.
Eyes bulging, she tries to rip his hands away from her throat, no longer caring about the pain in her shattered kneecaps. It takes several minutes but finally her gaze shifts away vacantly and her hands loosen from his wrists and fall out to the sides (he’ll have bruises on there for a couple weeks, he thinks absently).
"None of your business,” he's told her in the past and walked away. The fatigue he feels is starting to hollow him out, each day leaving him more numb than cold. Never, not once in all of the realities he visits, has he allowed himself to seek out the one person who could make all this go away. If he did, all that it would take was one look in his direction and he would fall to his knees at her feet and never leave - hiding away from what really happened to her, to his Aeryn. That would be a lie.
And he could never lie to her - not where his heart and home were concerned - because they were one and the same.
His revenge here, in this time, in this place, will be different. His – their – reality is special. Here there are two John Crichtons that need the satisfaction of paying back the woman that betrayed them. She is the one who caused the death of Aeryn Sun.
The other Furlows, no different from the one in his reality, are expendable. Extra credit as he writes his thesis on how to rid the universe of those who would conquer the weak. Only once does he consider sparing her life, because of her arguments of being part of something larger, of a resistance within the Scarrans' very own network of traitorous wastes of life. It lasts almost four full seconds after his gun falls to his side and he watches as the pop and fizzle of seared circuits cook the synthetic flesh housing them. Walking away, he thinks mechanic, heal thyself and he feels a chuckle almost make its way from his lips as he climbs into his module.
“What’s up, Johnny?”
He tilts his head, finger tracing a line around the edge of the cup, and grins. “Got somethin’ special for you, Furlow. Somethin’ – right up your alley…”
Her eyebrows rise up, disappearing beneath the brim of her cap. “Oh? Gonna give me that palace in the sky you been promising me?”
“Better. I’m gonna give you kinda reward for all that you’ve done for me. Long past time I made payment…”
She stands up after hearing the magic word, and comes around the table to join him as he heads back to the door leading outside. Holding the door open, he allows her to take the lead.
There’s someone waiting for them, hip leaning against the nose of the module. He looks at the two of them for a moment before straightening his frame up to full height. “Long time, no see,” Crichton flashes a smile before nodding in his direction. “Well, maybe not.”
“What the frell is going on here?” she asks, caught off-guard and taking a half-step back before bumping into him. Steadying her with a hand against her shoulder, he kicks the door closed behind them.
“Told ya I had a something for you. Meet my brother.”
“Never mentioned a brother before…”
“You never asked.”
Furlow considers his answer and the cigar switches from one side to the other. “What’s your name, cutie?”
Crichton’s body shifts slightly. “Oh you know my name – it’s John.”
She thinks it’s a joke and laughs while commenting that their parents weren’t very original, not realizing the sore spot she’d just chosen to poke until he tightens his grip on her shoulder.
“Watch it there, flyboy, you’re damaging the merchandise…”
Ignoring her for a brief moment, he asks, “So all her boys tucked into bed for the night?”
Crichton nods. “Yeah. I made sure of it.”
He’s already pulling the Ractor from his pocket, flicking off the safety, the blade readily spreading out the charge through the tempered metal.
She tries to break from his grip, and would have succeeded if Crichton weren’t there to land a punch squarely in the center of her fat gut. “Told you I had a surprise for you, Furlow; that you were going to get your reward. That I was going to pay you back in kind,” he hisses in her ear, crouching beside her as she curses. Crichton is standing over them, the blood of a command carrier and several thousand Peacekeeper souls shining brightly in his eyes.
The knife slides as easily through her clothes as it does the flesh beneath. He – they – both share in listening to her pay for Aeryn Sun, her potential for life. He doesn’t make her last moments go by too swiftly, encouraging her to list her sins over and over again with each slice of the blade and promising relief will come soon.
When Furlow’s end finally does come, they leave her lying in the dirt and climb into their respective copies of the module.
John has been striking out against the Scarran Imperium for monens, but he's only one man, only John Crichton, and there's only so much destruction that even he can rain down upon their heads. Soon he’ll finish teaching Crichton the lessons that Jack had taught him. The knowledge is there, inside, waiting for school to be back in session.
|
|
|
| 10 |
Time to Party / Comfy Chair / Re:Welcome wayward travelers from TF. |
on: March 5, 2008, 10:37:07 AM |
| Started by Kazbaby | Last post by Kazbaby |
| Yeah, I'm finding myself missing it too even though I don't talk as much as I used to. I still visit everyday if I can. |
|
|
Return
to the board index.
|
|
